Jeeves And The Hardboiled Eggs
by cuddyclothes
Summary: Bertie Wooster makes a wager. And the word "balls" gets used a great deal.


I blame the whole thing on the demon rum. No, it's not what you think. Old Wooster hadn't gotten arrested for pinching a policeman's helmet or jumping naked into the Trafalgar Square fountain. It was in fact, the lack of demon rum which caused the sitch.

I'd only stopped swilling spirits five days before, and my sleep was disrupted to a disagreeable extent. Not to mention my nerves twanging like guitar strings tuned too tightly. It was three ack emma. After hours of rotating under the bedclothes I gave up the good fight and slid out of bed.

The decision had been made after a three-day binge that left the corpus in the same state as if a horse-drawn cart, complete with horse, had backed up to run over me, then pulled forward to run me over again. Fragile, if you will, bereft of strength, stomach and head rebelling against their very existence. Young Wooster made a decision that would have men of weaker fiber down on their knees and weeping: no spirits of any kind would pass my lips for a week. Only two more days, I consoled myself, and I would be sleeping soundly and not feeling like I wanted to punch some cove in the nose.

The flat was dark and all was still. Even Jeeves, my man, would not be awake for another hour and a half at the earliest. As I moved about the silent sitting room, I thought I heard a small noise.

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

I stood, irresolute. What could possibly make such a strange noise? A tiny chorus of tap-dancing mice in tiny top hats?

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

It came from the kitchen. Chills went up the Wooster spine. A prowler! Of course! I moved closer to the door, the noise becoming ever-so-slightly louder. If it was indeed a prowler, he must have been working the lock with a nail file. Unprofessional, I'd say, overly laborious, amateur night in Dixie, don't you know. Clearly such a prowler would be scared off by a chap—Jeeves, of course—walking into the kitchen and bellowing something—well, Jeeves never bellows, but he could raise his voice and utter something stern that would chill the prowler's blood and send him screaming off into the night.

Before I fetched Jeeves, I silently pushed the swinging door open 1 millimeter. Before me there was a sight so astounding, so incredible, so bally impossible Wooster nearly fainted where he stood.

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

Sitting at the kitchen table, lit only by a small lamp, sat Jeeves. He was not yet fully dressed. His morning coat and waistcoat were nowhere to be seen. Just his shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up, crisply pressed trousers, and black braces looped over his broad shoulders. Seeing Jeeves without his coat was not what nearly caused me to drop to the floor unconscious. Although I must confess that ordinarily the sight caused my heart to flutter and my nether regions to, um, stir a tad. For some time the young master had pined—yes, I admit with some shame—pined over this paragon of intellect and Grecian figure. Unfortunately, Jeeves's heart did not flutter and his nether regions did not stir. So we carried on as man and godlike manservant, the Wooster fluttering and stirring ignored.

No, this was not what had the young master gawping like a goldfish.

Jeeves was juggling.

Let me say that again:

Jeeves was **juggling**.

Five white balls soared up and down in the air. His eyes were raised up, his mouth slightly open, unaware of anything but solitude. His large hands moved with a grace that was hypnotic. I was rooted to the spot. Not only had I never seen Jeeves with a rapt expression before, I had certainly never seen him elegantly tossing white spherical objects in the air in circles. Between Jeeves's face, his rolled up sleeves, and his long fingers, I could have taken him on the spot. If he'd wanted to be taken, that is. Which he did not, more's the pity.

I must have let the kitchen door swing open. Jeeves looked at me, his rapt expression vanishing as if it had been consumed by a snapping turtle. He easily caught the balls and put them on a plate on the kitchen table.

"Good morning, sir. You are awake unusually early. Do you require assistance?"

"Jeeves—" I gasped. "What—what on earth are you doing?"

"Juggling, sir."

"I didn't know you could juggle, Jeeves."

"Juggling is not a service that is ordinarily required in your employ, sir."

"I say—that is, I mean to say—that's bally marvelous!"

I leaned back against the kitchen counter, not caring that I was still gawping. My gawp had progressed from goldfish to goliath grouper. "Those don't look like regulation juggling balls."

"They are hardboiled eggs, sir. I find that they help keep one's reflexes sharp. Rather than bouncing, they crack when they land. So it is one's best interest to see that they do not land." With just the faintest hint of a smile, Jeeves picked up two eggs and proceeded to juggle them with one hand. "As you can see, sir, hardboiled eggs can be tossed with the same ease as balls." His eyes again looked upward at the flying chicken products.

"Where did you learn to do that? It's brilliant!"

"In my younger days in service. I was a footman at a large country estate. There were too many servants for the household, for our employer was a man who believed in excess in all things. Having the dining room crowded with extra footmen made him look, he thought, rich. The effect was not what he intended. To be honest, sir, it seemed a vulgar display."

"How terribly _nouveau riche_."

"I had much idle time on my hands. So I taught myself to juggle. It is most diverting."

"Yes, it is." I folded my arms and watched my valet expertly catch the eggs. He added another egg, and off he went, both hands this time. There was something...well, let us say...stimulating about it. Not to put too fine a point on it, I wished Bertram Wooster was one of those eggs. "I could watch you juggle all the livelong day. It is grand entertainment."

"Thank you, sir. The Junior Ganymede is planning a small party for the Gangringham Children's Home. Those of us with appropriate skills shall entertain the children. One of our members is able to walk with stilts. An underbutler of my acquaintance can swallow swords. It is most impressive."

"I'll say! Imagine a member of the downstairs staff swallowing kitchenware. The cook would think she misplaced the gateau slicer."

Jeeves neatly caught the eggs and placed them again on the plate. Really, his hands were beautiful. "Do you require anything, sir? A cup of tea?"

"Some tea would be jolly. Without the w. and s. I can't sleep, Jeeves. But if I had been slumbering, I would have missed this display of manual—manual—deca—deda-what's the word I want?"

"Dexterity, sir?"

"Dexterity, that's it! I mean to say, I know all about your manual dexterity. What I mean, is, the ease with which you pour my tea, fasten my waistcoat, er, tie my ties, er, your fingers are so nimble sometimes, nobody's feel like yours-" I stopped, feeling as though my brain had slammed into a wall. "You know."

"Thank you, sir."

"I mean to say, you are an _artiste_ of immense talent when it comes to handling balls." I gave an attempt at a light laugh, but it died not an inch from my lips. "If an American was listening to this, they'd think I meant your balls—that I meant your—by Jove, dashed fortunate we're English, eh?"

Jeeves patiently waited out my verbal gobbledygook. One eyebrow quirked up. "Just so, sir."

The chap was so dashed accomplished in every way. Extricating self and friends from near-marital disasters, quoting philosophers and what have you, making an exquisite cup of Oolong. Nothing could discommode him, nothing.

But nobody, not even Jeeves, is _that_ perfect...

A light bulb went on over my head. Not an actual physical light bulb, mind you, one of those ones you see when you're watching a cartoon dog at the picture show. It had much the same meaning.

"Jeeves, can you juggle without stopping for fifteen minutes?"

"Sir?"

"You stare at those eggs with concentration that would do a mystic staring into the metaphysical credit. Somebody needs to break your concentration."

Slowly, an infinitesimal, defiant quirk of his lips showed me he thought the Wooster brain was not up to this herculean task. "If I may say so, sir, I can juggle for over an hour without stopping."

I leaned on the table. "Care to wager on it, Jeeves?"

"I do not think that appropriate, sir." As if with a will of its one, his long fingers took two of the eggs and Jeeves proceeded to once again to juggle them with one hand. It was dashed attractive.

"Your mouth says no, but your hands say yes, Jeeves. Are you afraid to wager, old thing? Afraid you'll crack? Get it?"

"Yes, sir and no, sir."

I leaned toward him, both palms flat on the table. "I don't believe you, Jeeves. You're not up to the task. Pulling the young master out of the soup, yes. Discarding unwanted fiancée's, yes. Juggling without stopping with distractions furnished by yours truly, no."

One dark eyebrow rose, indicating that I could get stuffed. "That's that, then!" I slapped the table. "Five hundred pounds against—"

"I don't have five hundred pounds, sir."

"All right!" I threw an evil smile his way. "Five hundred pounds against that inscribed copy of 'The Ethics' by Benedict de Spinoza that I gave you for Christmas."

Jeeves's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "But what use would it be to you?"

"That is for me to know, Jeeves. To quote the Bard, 'your seeded pride, that hath to—to—"

"That hath to this maturity blown up, in rank Achilles must or now be cropp'd, sir. Troilus and Cressida, sir."

"Precisely! Your blown-up seeded pride must be cropp'd!"

Jeeves was now looking straight into my eyes, with an intensity that gave the Wooster spine the shivers. "I shall take the wager, sir."

"Ha! Take up thy balls, Jeeves, and endeavor to keep your eggs flying!"

"Very good, sir." With an air of bold determination, Jeeves took up three of the hardboiled eggs and started tossing, gazing up at them whilst he juggled. After a few seconds he proceeded to move his forearms in circular fashion while the eggs swirled around him. "This is called the Windmill." He lightly caught the eggs, then tossed them up again. "This is called the Claws Catch, sir." He proceeded to make it look for all the world like he was catching the eggs as they came at him, although that was physically impossible.

"Why are you looking at the eggs?"

"One must look at them, sir. It is required when juggling."

"I don't need you looking at me anyway."

"If I may take the liberty, I have many years of experience in both juggling and displaying proper decorum at all times," Jeeves responded. "Your efforts will be wasted, sir." Dashed if the blighter didn't toss them up so they looked to be cascading downward. "This trick is called the Waterfall."

It was the same as if he'd swatted the dial with a rolled-up glove. The man was a marvel. I began to regret my foolish wager. Not that I'd regret the five hundred pounds, I'm stagnant with the stuff. But blast it, Jeeves always won every skirmish, or at the very least put me in numerous humiliating or painful situations.

"Fifteen minutes. I shall win the Spinoza! Faint heart ne're won fair philosopher!"

"Yes, sir."

It was on! Unfortunately for Bertram, I'd wagered without the faintest idea of what I was going to do.

"Ho, Jeeves, I require a cup of tea, eftsoons!"

"In approximately fourteen and two/thirds of a minute, sir."

Dash it! "Jeeves, I'm going to wear a pink paisley tie I have hidden in the sock drawer, and you can't stop me!"

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

"I shall wear the pink paisley tie with my bright yellow cummerbund AND purple socks AND an Alpine hat with a large feather in the brim. How do you like THOSE apples, eh?"

Damn! Jeeves continued to juggle, gazing up at the flying eggs as if at a serene country landscape. "Very good, sir," he muttered.

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

I did everything I could think of—and I do mean everything I could think of—to throw him off his task. I whinnied like a horse, I shouted that the flat was on fire, I imitated a chorus line kicking to the tune of "Forty-Seven Ginger Haired Sailors", I stood on my hands...to no avail. I sang "Won't You Go Boomps-A-Daisy With Me," a music hall ditty I knew cut to the depths of his soul. I resorted to pulling funny faces.

For almost ten minutes I jumped about the kitchen making an ass out of myself. I was panting and growing exhausted. Jeeves continued to juggle, the eggs flying in rhythm, and hang it, he was smirking! Jeeves was smirking! The bally cheek! The gall! Smirking at me, by God! There had to be something that would wipe that smirk off his pan.

My next actions could be explained by being driven berserk by the Wooster competitive spirit. Or my furious frustration that the cove would not crack. Would not, I say! Was this a Jeeves-shaped automaton that existed to do nothing but to fling hardboiled eggs about?

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

Unthinking, I dropped to all fours and crawled under the kitchen table.

"Sir?"

"Think of the Spinoza!" I heard the rhythmic smack of the eggs. His lower half was facing me, one leg slightly jiggling with the juggling, if you know what I mean. It was but the work of a moment to scoot between his muscular legs and undo the buttons of his trousers.

"Mr. Wooster, sir?"

"Let's see you keep juggling now!" I pulled the velvet sheath that proclaimed him male out of his underthings and proceeded to arrange my mouth around it. I gave it a good old pull.

"Sir!"

"Keep juggling, Jeeves," I said, but with his John Thomas in my mouth it came out "keef wuh-wuh-wuh, Wuh!"

Dashed if the cove didn't keep juggling! There was more than one way to suck a Jeeves! If my years at Oxford had taught me anything, it was how to bring off a chappie. I bent to it with a will, sucking, gulping and breathing. His prick was extremely large, so I had to curl my hand around the bottom and keep rhythm with my mouth.

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

Can you credit it, Jeeves did not _stop juggling_?

Not even for a blasted second! You'd think the y.m.'s technique would have deliver results in no time, but clearly my valet was made of sterner stuff. I popped 'little Jeeves' out of my mouth and licked the tip. I felt him shudder. Careful not to strike my head on the bottom of the table, I put my hand on his right thigh and gave it a good old squeeze. His leg shuddered and pushed slightly into my hand.

But, damn it all, still juggling! I mean to say!

I moved my head so fast I thought my neck would break and leave me paralyzed for life, stuck in a wheelchair with a blanket over my knees. An absolute sucking hummingbird, if you get my drift.

 _Thwick thwick thwick thwick_

Still juggling! His body was jerking and one of his legs shot out straight, nearly kicking me in the side. Besides the _thwick-thwick-thwick_ , the man himself was making sounds that were music to, er, my lower quarters. I imagined Jeeves grabbing my prick and jerking it. Yes, that would be acceptable, bally acceptable, if only I wasn't so bally hard that I was going to go off like a bally Christmas cracker at any moment. For Queen and Country, Bertie, hold off!

Jeeves's body stiffened and he came off in my mouth.

 **Ha!**

I find spend distasteful, so I spat it out and let myself go as well. With a gasp, I collapsed on the floor.

 _Thwick-thwick-thwick_

"I believe fifteen minutes has gone by, sir," Jeeves said in a ragged voice.

Silence, save for both of us panting.

When I came out from under the kitchen table, Jeeves was quite a sight. His face red, sweat not only bedewing his brow but the whole face, breath coming in short huffs. As for the young master, he barely had the strength to pull himself off the floor and into a chair opposite his disheveled manservant.

Finally, the eggs had stopped moving. Looking absolutely boneless, Jeeves dropped them to join their compatriots on the plate.

"Congratulations, Jeeves, you win. Oh dear."

"Yes, sir." He looked at me, a certain indefinable thingness on his features that got my lower half to start stirring again.

"If I may take the liberty, sir, I would like something other than the five hundred pounds. I do not want for money, sir, what I have is adequate to my needs."

"Anything, Jeeves. Except that I don't have another copy of Spinoza about the apartment. A German philosopher, mayhaps?"

"Perhaps...giving you the extreme pleasure you gave me, sir? I would find that satisfactory. More than satisfactory, in fact." He gave me a small, lustful smile. "I have often pondered the idea during the nighttime hours, sir."

"Oh, bloody hell, yes!" With a vigor I did not know I possessed, I hurled myself across the table and grabbed Jeeves in an embrace, arms wrapping around his strong shoulders, my mouth eagerly seeking his. He responded with the same vigor, and suddenly we were grappling like wrestlers, kissing each other everywhere our lips could reach. Jeeves swept me off the table and into his arms. My leg managed to catch the plate of eggs and sent it flying across the kitchen, crashing against the stove.

It's not my habit to be explicit about my intimate life. Suffice to say we tumbled out of the kitchen and onto the setting room floor with hands exploring, bodies tangling, clothes ripping and strange noises that might have alarmed the neighbors. One might even say we explored a heaven like Mahomet's Paradise. Then explored it again and again.

We're still exploring. My darling Jeeves really does have the most talented hands.

9


End file.
